1886: Bombay to Sussex
The time has come, at last, for me to take my final leave of India. In little more than a month, I shall embark for England, there to retire from what I can only describe as the most extraordinary chapter of a life that has at times resembled a roman à clef—apparently fictional in its twists and turns, yet altogether real in its living. Two decades under this golden sun have left me both richer and wearier than I had imagined possible.
You will understand, perhaps better than most, that my time in India has been varied beyond description. I have been, by turns, treated as the Duke’s granddaughter and as a maharani in the courts of native princes. I have stood with some little grace astride two civilisations—English and Indian—and have, in spite of my profession, been received with the utmost courtesy on both sides. I daresay it is because I dealt not in politics but in pleasure; for the one divides and the other unites. It was never my ambition to be powerful—only to be agreeable; and in so doing I discovered that influence often lies hidden in laughter and that affection bought honestly is worth more than love professed.
I have learned the art, as every woman in my peculiar station must, of listening closely and speaking rarely. Secrets have been my coin and I have spent none of them. Unlike our London cousin, who seems delighted to parade her adventures in print, I shall never write my memoirs, for that would be to betray not only others but myself. Discretion is, after all, the final luxury of the well-born sinner.
When I look back, I can scarcely credit that I have dined beneath chandeliers in Calcutta, danced at viceregal balls in Simla, recited verses at a mehfil in Hyderabad and exchanged pleasantries with men who governed half the world by breakfast. Yet I have also sat barefoot among jasmine vines, listening to Hindustani songs that conjure both love and loss in a single breath. I have known splendour and simplicity and I cannot say which has been the truer pleasure.
I do, however, tremble a little at the thought of England. After these bright, perfumed nights, how shall I bear the grey restraint of her skies? What does one do, I wonder, with a spirit accustomed to monsoon rain and Mughal marble when faced again with drizzle and drawing rooms? Still, I think I shall retire peacefully into the countryside, far from the feverish pretence of society. There I mean to grow old, if not respectable, at least content.
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